


Can I Touch Your Face (Before You Go?)

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Businessman!Niall, M/M, although niall's profession isn't actually mentioned woops, writer!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8117290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "The only thing that's sadder than a love ending in heartbreak, is a love that never had a chance to begin."





	

 

(+)

"Fuck, _fuck_." Harry mumbles to no one in particular, shutting his worn out, leather journal, which has a stitched piece of satin poking out from the bottom, the edges split and pulled at uneven lengths, only making him anxious a couple of times. He checks his watch, which now reads _5:45_ compared to what it showed when he checked about two hours ago, and Harry guesses time just passes by quickly when your lost in your own thoughts and writing — and a good cup of coffee.

It's rather quiet, the place where he is. Silent, but pleasing. The rich aroma of coffee beans seem to fill the air and the typing of keys on laptops and the sounds of silent lounge music fills Harry's ears, and he loves coming here, whether it's to write or to just sit and unwind, though that clearly isn't the case as of now.

He quickly rushes to the dull green bin which is fitted into a wooden table, wiping the couple of drops of coffee that seem to rub onto his finger from the edge of the cup onto his black jeans. It's not like anyone's going to notice anyways.

He notices a few eyes on him, knows it's because he's rushing and looks nothing short of crazy. It's just, he was supposed to leave for a meeting half an hour ago, and his clumsy self completely forgot about it, even switched off his phone so nobody could text him.

Harry opens the door of the coffee shop and lets the wind hit him like it does when he goes out for his morning runs, or when he finishes his late night shifts at the office. It's nice and calming, breaks him out from reality for a second before he's brought back and his body goes into overdrive, causing him to start sprinting down the pavement, ignoring the way the wind seems to push his hair back and cause goosebumps to rise on his skin.

He's using one (kind of) free hand to dig into his skin tight jeans, and retrieve his car keys, and the other one holds his Mac Book and journal close to him, preventing them from falling.

This is usually how his life is during the month of October, hectic and chilly but still calm when he gets time to feel so. It's a mess of meetings and going to the local pub and writing, _lots_ of writing, but Harry loves it, in a strange and twisted way.

He barely has time to think about where he's headed, brushing past people and inhaling different colognes (not all of them pleasing, mind you), and he looks down for a second, just to look at why the fuck his keys aren't in his pockets, before he's bumping head first into someone, elicting a painful groan from them, or him, rather.

Harry's journal drops to the ground in shock, and he silently curses because as much as he wants to see if this person is okay, he has to be at this meeting because he remembers his best mate Liam telling him how important it was for the status of their company, although Harry wouldn't have gone, if he had the choice.

He quickly faces the man, immediately noticing how young he looks. His hand is rubbing circles on his forehead, and he doesn't look angry - per se, just hurt.

"I am _so_ sorry," Harry says sincerely, face going soft as he continues to look at the man, wanting to reach out and hold the man's suit-clothed hand to help him out, "It's just, I'm running late for a meeting and I really don't want to leave you without checking if your okay and—"

"Ey' mate, s'alright." _Irish_ , Harry notes down somewhere in his head, watching silently as the man chuckles, and he looks at how pale the man's skin is, wondering if his cheeks are actually a rosy red when it isn't as cold as it is now. The man looks at the journal, blue eyes widening and face twitching into a smile. Harry impatiently taps his foot against the cement, knowing the man has a question for him.

"You a writer?" he asks, and Harry blushes and shakes his head, almost sadly, blowing out cold air, thinking that it'll keep him warm in some way. It doesn't.

"I wish. I'm a secretary, writing's just a side hobby." He explains, trying to show the man that he is in fact running late and needs to go. The man mumbles a small 'ah', smiling and revealing a perfect set of white teeth. It makes Harry warm all of a sudden, but he thinks it's just because the wind stopped blowing at them the way it was, so harshly.

"You should keep doing it, if you love it as much as I think you do. The name's Niall, by the way." The man — Niall, smiles, giving Harry his hand to shake, which Harry finds is surprisingly warm when he does.

"Harry." he breathes out, and then looks at his watch again, a look of concern spreading across his face, "Look, I'd love to talk but I'm really running late so—"

Niall shakes his head, "Yeah, yeah- sure. No worries. See ya around Harry, I hope." Niall says, already moving past Harry, waving his hand as he does. His shoes click away against the pavement, barely audible to anyone who doesn't really want to listen. Harry gives him a curt nod, and walks away as well.

He walks for a bit and thinks about Niall, wondering where he had to go, if he had a family to go home to, or a girlfriend or his mum and dad. He turns around and tries to spot Niall's blond hair, but the boy is no where to be seen.

So Harry turns back, knows he'll never see the lad again, and moves on.

_I hope._

(+)

"So, Harry, what was the idea behind the entire story?" A man who Harry supposes is in his fifties, asks.

"I think it's just," Harry begins, his voice rather loud to his own ears, looking at the book _he's_ written, a book that _he's_ created with his own thoughts and emotions and it's staring back at him in the face, and Harry has no idea if he should be shocked or excited, "we go past so many people during our lives, not knowing if they'll ever effect us or they're just a person in our life like the Earth is to the universe, y'know?" he doesn't think they do - know, he means.

"And I feel like," he notices once again that all eyes are on him rather than on his notepad, and he wonders how just a couple years changed him so much, and how all those late meetings and story writing in a small coffee shop got him to where he is now, and he can easily say he's proud of himself.

"I feel like the only thing that's sadder than a love ending in heartbreak, is a love that never had a chance to begin." he breathes out, and the words feel so rich and big rolling out his tongue, and he knows that if there were a group of literature lovers out here they'd be inhaling sharply and breathing in, taking in what he's saying the way he does when he says it. He loves it, all of it.

The flashing lights increase, a chorus of applause begins to ensue, and Harry gives everyone a big smile, bashfully looking at the crowd.  
  
He imagines the man with blue eyes and blond hair smiling back.

(+)


End file.
